My father is Serafin Cruz Guinigundo, Apin to his friends, whom everybody thought was a fool for reciting Filipino poetry for hours before an old family mirror one summer afternoon. He commandeered it and carried it down and placed it under a fruit tree. He was barely ten when my grandmother Juliana rushed to ask him what was wrong with his mind. Some of my father’s playmates apparently suspected he went nuts and told on him.
So many things my father taught me, and this was one of them. If I wanted to do good with my craft, I must practice to perfection.